


Sin Eater

by thatotherperv



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angsty Schmoop, Canon Rewrite, Historical, M/M, Pre-Canon, Souled Vampire(s), Spike: the Caretaker, Spike: the Predator, Vampires are not Fluffy, all roads lead to canon (sorta), this is romantic if you're as twisted as me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-21
Updated: 2007-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 23:54:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatotherperv/pseuds/thatotherperv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>pre-canon AU.  What if Spike stumbled across Angelus just before he fled China?  A peek at how their lives would have been different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. China, 1900

**Author's Note:**

> this is a different thing for me. I didn't ever think I'd do a historical fic like this again, so please mind any gaping anachronisms. I'd hate for you to fall through them and break an arm. :) also, deviation from the norm because it's not really porny, although there is sex. also, the format is new to me...it's 6 shortish parts. originally meant to be drabbles, but I am physically incapable...after all, look how much I babble in the header to my fic?
> 
> I have to thank so_sharlemaine for giving this a read-through for some continuity stuff I was angsting about. I've never written anything episodic like this before and I was/am nervous. she also suggested the title! so this one's totally for her, because she's such a sweetie. *smooches*
> 
> I'm keeping everything pre-leave-off point as close to canon as possible, so sire = in the sense of mentor.
> 
> Original posts [here](http://thatotherperv.livejournal.com/tag/sin%20eater)

_China, 1900_

“Angelus?”

Spike had put Dru to bed after one more tumble, but he wasn’t bound for sleep just yet. His veins still coursed with slayer’s blood, and the adrenaline of the kill. Figured he would troll the burning streets a bit longer and snatch one or two more tasties before sunrise. Scare the holy hell out of some missionaries and snap the necks of some villagers. Good clean fun.

But his plan was arrested by the sight of his sire hunched over something strangely in an alleyway. He’d been happy to see the tosser again after two years’ separation, but he'd been a cranky bastard since he’d joined them last month…well, crankier than usual.

“What have you got there, mate?”

Angelus’ shoulders were shaking strangely, and when Spike stepped close enough to peer over his shoulder, he saw a human infant, eyes wide and glassy, small limbs still. Didn’t smell like blood, just smelled like…death. Spike was puzzled.

“Darla’s going to be right pissed you snapped the thing’s neck, you know how she likes them to squirm and wail when she tears into their little—”

He stopped short, physically stuttering backwards at the mournful sound Angelus made, and the way he clutched the little body closer. Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Angelus? What…what the bloody hell is wrong with you?”

Spike’s skin began to crawl at the way his sire’s body started to rock, muttering like a madman. The only thing he could catch coherently was ‘dropped her….’ Spike took in the broken glass littered around them and raised his eyes to the gaping window of Darla’s room.

He lay a hand on Angelus’ shoulder. “Angelus….”

The other vampire stood suddenly, child falling from his arms like a broken doll as his large hands flew up to pull at his hair, raking it back nervously. “My fault, I should have…but I didn’t and now—Have to go, I can’t..be here, with the screaming. Screaming in my head, and the screaming in the streets, and the screaming of the dead…. Damned.” Dark eyes flashed up and locked on his, wide with terror like a spooked horse. “Have to go.”

And he took off like a shot, moving as Spike had never seen Angelus move before…scurrying-like, head tucked against his shoulders, big body hunched as if to make himself invisible. Moving fast. _Fleeing_.

“Angelus, wait!” He gave chase, finally catching up with the other vampire just beyond the edge of the village, lunging out to snag Angelus’ arm and yank him around in a way that his sire should never have allowed.

When he didn’t find himself backhanded, Spike knew that something was very, very wrong. He gave Angelus a long, hard look, trying to understand this change in demeanor.

“Where are you going?”

Angelus’ eyes flitted out into the darkness, disoriented and uncertain. “I…away. Let me…I have to….”

But Spike held fast to his arm when he tried to yank it away. He had a strong premonition not to let Angelus disappear. A feeling they’d never see him again if he did. Spike looked back towards the blazing wreckage that contained, for the moment, both their better halves.

Dru would be heartbroken if Angelus were to fuck off again. Inconsolable.

The thought made his own chest squeeze sickly.

“I’m coming with you.” Angelus lurched backwards as if he’d been stricken. They stared at one another for a moment. If Spike went with him, he could keep tabs and make sure they were reunited. The girls would catch up in a week or two. Surely there was nothing left for them here, and they’d soon grow bored and leave. Angelus had said as much himself just tonight. Spike didn’t like taking off without notice to Drusilla, but it seemed as though it couldn’t be helped.

Some strange expression passed over his sire’s face. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Spike hesitated at the small, lost tone and the alien words. “…Right. Well. Lead on, then.”

They’d better find somewhere to hide their heads before the sun came up.


	2. India, 1900

_India, 1900_

“You have to eat.”

Angel was so weak he could barely stir in the bed. Hadn’t fed in the three weeks they’d been travelling, and it made Spike sick to see him this way. Sick with worry, sick with anger. Disgust. This was not his sire. This wasn’t the proud, vital patriarch he’d known.

Those brown eyes that used to flash with humor and bloodlust gazed weakly at the boy Spike had dragged in for him, startling him with their sheen of tears. So frequent an occurrence now, but it never stopped scaring the piss out of him. “I can’t. I _can’t_. I can’t.”

Spike could barely hear the trembling whisper above the brat’s loud, pleading gibberish, and his futile struggle was trying Spike’s last nerve. He clenched his jaw and looked away, so close to losing his temper with Angel. Never did have the patience with this wanker that he had for his goddess.

His view out the crude window to their room was veiled with the mosquito netting that hemmed them into the bed, but he could still make out the lush foliage, the tight clutch of the other buildings in this village. It was a bad place to stop, in a community this tight-knit, but Angel hadn’t been fit to travel any farther, and the people here were ever hospitable. A family had vacated their home for the duration of their stay.

But they couldn’t stay long, that was the thing—because Spike sure as hell wouldn’t starve himself, and soon they’d have the village on them with torches and stakes. Angel had to feed tonight so they could bugger off tomorrow, and he had to feed _now_ , so Spike could snag another spicy treat before they all went indoors.

Unbelievable as it would seem, Angelus could no longer kill. _Couldn’t_. It pained him, as if it were physical. Spike didn’t understand it, but at this point, there was only one thing to do.

Angel wailed when Spike snapped the boy’s neck. Wailed like that soul (and Christ, hadn’t that news been a shock) was being ripped right out of him, and would that it were. He dry-heaved into the bedding and wept, but Spike waited him out and when his fit had ended, he tore the boy’s throat open himself and put the gushing wound right to Angel’s cracked lips.

In the end, Angel couldn’t say no to that.


	3. London, 1902

_London, 1902_

“I can’t stay here.”

It was apropos of nothing. He’d found Angelus lurking in the dark with a bottle of whiskey. Familiar enough sight from before the soul, if you discounted the complete and utter lack of joy.

Spike was unsure whether ‘here’ was this house, with its occupants rotting in the corner, or London, or…Spike’s presence, or this plane of existence. All seemed likely, as the git hadn’t stopped moping since they’d arrived home. Though at least he’d been more lucid since Spike started making him feed properly.

Spike snorted. “Passed through every burgh and city between here and China, mate, and none of ‘em seemed to suit His Majesty. Where were you plannin’ on goin’, Timbuktu?”

Deep swig. Quiet look. “America. Bought the passage. I leave next week.”

Spike was momentarily stunned. Angelus was leaving them. Properly. Putting an ocean between himself and his family, never to be seen again, if he could help it. “You will not.”

“I am. Didn’t ask your permission.” The words were sulky— _broody_ —not sharp, as they should have been. And all at once, Spike knew.

If Angelus got on that ship alone, he wouldn’t live to see land. He had that look in his eyes…the one that belonged in prey, not predator. The one that said death was a mercy compared to this much pain. Spike had seen it often enough. Angelus had taught him how to put it there.

“I’m coming with you.”

The words surprised _him_ , so he wasn’t shocked to see Angel’s eyes widen. They both knew it meant leaving Drusilla behind, for good. Who knew when the girls would make their way to London, but it wouldn’t be next week.

Angelus turned back to the fire, hiding his face behind a curtain of unkempt hair. “William. Be a good boy and wait for the women. Look after them.”

“They can look after themselves, you ponce. Only thing that can hurt them is findin’ out you took to sunbathing. And that I let you.”

Angel didn’t deny it. They sat in silence for a long time, listening to the crackle of the fire. The slosh of a dwindling amount of liquor in the bottle.

Spike was nearly asleep where he sat, sunrise calling all good vampires to slumber. Angel must have thought him asleep as well, because it was only then that Spike heard the faintest acknowledgement of his decision.

“Thank you.”


	4. Atlantic, 1902

_Atlantic, 1902_

Spike quickly discovered that he _loathed_ boats. Like giant wooden coffins that rocked and rolled till you wanted to vomit your guts out, and he hadn’t liked being buried alive the first time, without the motion sickness.

Angel never left the cabin. Well, he did, but only to catch rats in the cargo bay. He stunk of vermin, and Spike tried to spend as little time with him as possible, only returning for sleep. Could have slept elsewhere, truth be told. There were plenty of warm beds where he was welcome. But Angel had nightmares. Spike knew he only slept well when he was held.

Poofter.

Wasn’t even getting shagged out of the deal. Angel acted like a monk, rather than a sinful creature of the night. Outraged like a virgin when Spike tried to start a little rough n tumble.

There was a boy that Spike was fucking. Weak, needy little thing that panted and sobbed with pleasure when he bent him over a crate and thrust into that tight arse. Needy enough, or masochistic enough, that he let Spike slip into a vein and feed as they came. Wasn’t anything to live off of if you could help it, but he couldn’t feed on the ship. Not if they didn’t fancy getting left to swim the Atlantic.

Three weeks in, he did get desperate enough to cull one from the herd. Dumped the body overboard and pretended ignorance when the man came up missing. Wasn’t something that could be repeated, unfortunately. Questions would be asked.

But fuck, it had been good to drink his fill.

Nearly kissed the ground when they landed on Ellis Island. Got them settled neat as you please in New York, a city that thrummed with an adolescent vibration, still so young. Nothing like home. But full of tired, weak and huddled masses ripe for the plucking.

He wondered if the girls had arrived in London yet. And if they had, whether they’d been given the note he’d left with one of Darla’s society bitches. He hoped Dru didn’t cry for them for too long—because he knew she’d cry longer if Daddy was a big pile of dust. They’d see one another again…some day.

How _he’d_ ended up with the job of keeping the family together, he’d never know. Responsibility gave him a rash.


	5. New York, 1907

_New York, 1907_

Spike was hardly through the door to their dingy little flat before he was slammed back against the wall by the entrance.

“Angelus,” he greeted the man pressed against him pleasantly.

“I told you to call me Angel.” _Angel’s_ teeth were bared, and he looked like he’d been rolling in garbage. A distinct possibility.

Spike smiled. “Angelus.”

“You stupid little prick. I told you not to feed on children.”

“I didn’t feed on—”

“Don’t test me, Spike. I smell the boy on you.”

Spike licked his lips. “In me, mostly.”

He ignored Angel as he slammed him back against the wall by the lapels, instead contemplating the ceiling in a blasé manner.

“Although, before that, I was in _him_ , which he seemed to enjoy a bit better…. And technically, not a child. Thought himself a man, he did. Breadwinner of his family and all…so of course, eating the rest of them was a mercy killing, really. So many wee ones, I thought I’d rot my teeth out with the sweetness. And the mother, well, she _was_ a piece….”

Spike giggled as he was flipped around and slammed face-first into the plaster hard enough to dent the wall. He laughed harder still, choked like sobbing, when a thick cock thrust violently into his arse before his trousers were even caught around his knees.

His arms were twisted up at a painful angle behind his back, but even so, he shoved back into the searing burn of it, delirious on the pleasure-laced pain. The coupling was fast and harsh and rough, as it ever was these days, rough enough that Spike didn’t (couldn’t) come until Angel struck, fangs tearing into his throat to feed greedily. He rested his forehead against the cool surface of the wall as Angel drank him damn near dry, till he was dizzy and high on the orgasm and his own blood loss.

Spike was still catching his proverbial breath when Angel slumped heavily against him, trapping him against the wall. The fight, the rage, always left Angel after the fucking and feeding, so his tongue was soft and soothing as it lapped at the blood seeping from the wound in Spike’s throat. But when Angel pulled out, Spike couldn’t stifle the hoarse shout at the pain of semen and flesh grating on his open wounds.

He cringed with dread as the big body behind his shuddered at the sound. Bloody hell, not again.

His sire’s forehead fell against his shoulder with a choked sob. Always despair and regret, with this one. One cool finger stroked delicately against his torn opening, while Spike struggled to contain his flinch.

“Christ, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I don’t want to….” Angel drew in a shuddering breath, easing back when Spike started to turn towards him, slowly for advanced warning. Bad to startle him after…the last time he’d taken to the street like a startled deer, Spike barely found him before sunrise. “I always hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He let Angel sob against his collarbone for a moment, making comforting ssh-ssh noises until the worst had passed. Then he shuffled him towards the bed like a tired child, tucking him under the covers for sleep before moving away to clean himself with a damp cloth. He made sure Angel was dead to the world before cleaning the blood and spend off his sire’s cock. A disaster, too, to let him awaken to the evidence.

When he gingerly eased himself into bed, Angel nuzzled closer, seeking the comfort, and Spike drew him in. Angel’s limbs were heavy and solid, thrown over his body in a way that used to be possessive. Now…he just didn’t know. He stared at the ceiling a long time as he healed, feeling the burn in his arse and the wash of loneliness. He missed Dru. Hell, he missed Darla, and he sure as sod-all else missed Angelus, when he was strong and capable and quick to laugh. He wasn’t sure what was worse, these moments of clinging weakness, or what he would wake up to the next morning…the stinging contempt once Angel had convinced himself that his violent actions had been justified.

And they were. Spike made sure that they were. Took children and innocents, made sure their stink of terror still clung to him when he came through the door. Spike preferred veal to begin with, but he made sure he bragged to his old sire about the way he glutted more than any one vampire needed to survive. Then Angel would force him down and fuck him and feed from him like it was punishment. Domination, so he’d learn his lesson and be a good boy next time.

Even though they both knew he’d continue eating for two.

Was the only way to keep Angel fed properly without drivin’ him barmy with guilt. Took him a year and a half in America to work that one out, but now they were in a fine routine, and the only victim on Angel’s conscience was Spike’s arsehole, which suited everyone just fine.

Angel whimpered in his sleep, muttering enough aloud for Spike to recognize just which European slaughter was plaguing his nightmares tonight. He tugged him closer and murmured a soft nothing or two to make the larger man quiet and relax against him.

Fact was, Angelus, his Angelus, was gone. Never coming back, though Christ knew Spike had spoken to every mage and demon in this new city to try and rid him of this disease. Angelus was gone, and the bloke left in his stead was nuttier than Dru. Least his princess had been able to care for herself, most days. Had a sense of self-preservation. Dignity. Joy in life.

Angel had none of those. All Angel had was Spike.

So he couldn’t afford to bugger it up.


	6. Boston, 1918

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh, generally I lean heavily on vagueness to get through this historical part of this historical fic, but a bunch of things fell oddly into place in this final part. For those unfamiliar with the events I mention, there is an A/N at the end explaining…but I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t be too much of a problem either way.
> 
> this has been a huge experiment for me, so thanks muchly to everyone who has given me such lovely feedback.

_Boston, 1918_

“There you are, pet. Had me a bit worried, you did. What was the hold-up?”

Angel gave him a tentative smile as he approached. They were not a mile from Fenway, and the good people of Boston were still high on victory. Baseball—weird Yank perversion of cricket. He didn’t get it, personally.

“I was just…walking. People are so happy tonight.”

Small faint clouds of frost puffed into the September air with his speech. Time was, Spike would have made fun of the timid happiness in Angelus’ demeanor or the simple pleasure he took in the human revelry. Spike knew he’d been sketching, as he did sometimes. Jotting his observation of human life down on paper as though it were precious and worthy of note.

But at least he was back in the world. Sort of.

“Yeah,” Spike said, brushing elbows with him as they started home, hands in pockets. The human crowds parted for them as they passed, instincts being what they were. “Well, I’m sure it’s a nice change of pace for them after all the deprivation and death, to have a little celebration over sport.”

“It’s nice.”

Spike made an agreeable sound, but he was distracted by a small boy standing alone on the street, looking lost and frightened. He was so close to the alley that if Spike could send Angel on an errand….

But it was too late, because Angel had already spotted the lad, and was squatting to talk to him. He could kiss _that_ tasty treat goodbye. Spike angled his body towards the street to publicly detach himself from the good deed, savoring the last cigarette from the pack that was increasingly difficult to find, pretending to be bored. He didn’t have to fake the eye-roll. Angel did this sometimes. It seemed to alleviate his nightmares, and since he now turned a blind eye to Spike’s hunting, it was all the same to him…if a little embarrassing.

He watched as Angel and the boy smiled at one another (who knew the poof was so good with children, when he wasn’t trying to eat them?), and then Angel was hoisting the lad onto his shoulders so he could see above the crowd. The boy pointed, and Angel loped off in that direction to deposit the tyke with his parents, backing away in shy discomfort when the worry lines on the mum’s face changed to effusive gratitude. He came trotting quickly back to Spike, a bit embarrassed, and Spike lay a guiding hand on his back in reassurance as they walked.

“A real white hat, aren’t you, luv?”

Angel stopped and turned sharply towards him, searching his face for any bitterness or mockery, but Spike had let that go. No point in it really…it was what it was, and you had to roll with the punches.

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” Spike paused, exhaling casually. “Suits you.”

“Yeah, ok,” Angel said skeptically, hiding a pleased little smile.

Spike salvaged his pride by pretending the expression didn’t warm him.

“Bit peckish?”

“A bit.”

“Let’s get you fed, then.”

Angel looked away and resisted the tug homeward. Spike waited through a short, pissy pause. “You don’t have to talk to me that way, you know.”

“And what way’s that?”

“I’m fine now. I don’t need you to take care of me.” There were little stubborn frown-lines forming between his brows.

“No?” Spike gave him a long look, since they both knew _that_ wasn’t true. He wondered, sometimes, what would have become of the git if he’d never found him in that alley. His own life would have been simpler, for certain. But Angel…he was healthy and clean and alive, and he didn’t loathe himself quite so much as he might. And that had been Spike’s doing. He was certain of it.

He was Angel’s sin-eater, and he gave Angel’s soul rest.

Angel dropped his gaze to his shoes. “Spike…I know what you gave up—”

Suddenly he stepped into Angel and sealed their mouths together. Clipped the end of Angel’s sentence away with a surprised little sound that reverberated against his lips—onlookers be damned. Spike didn’t ever want it said aloud, what he’d given up…because then he’d have to ask himself what the bloody hell he’d been thinking, when any sensible vampire would have kicked this abomination out on his arse. Just as Darla had.

Angel grunted and tried to pull away, angry at being manhandled, but when Spike persisted, he melted slowly, seduced by the sweet slide of Spike’s lips. He was a romantic sod, this Angelus. Preferred loving Spike deep and slow till his toes curled, murmuring endearments of ownership in a dozen tongues. Sloppy wanker.

Spike usually let him. Had to keep him happy, after all.

When he pulled back, the look in those brown eyes was warmer. “Let’s go home, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Angel wouldn’t let go of his hand, so Spike hid their twined fingers nonchalantly in his coat pocket. He squeezed the big palm. “I’m thinking of quitting Boston, where should we go next?”

“I’ve heard Chicago is nice.”

“Don’t say that too loud tonight! Those Chicago tossers will probably be sulking about for weeks.” Which meant they’d be drunkardly and easy to pick off. Besides, he heard Chicago was quite the party these days. Wankers in Congress were trying to criminalize the pint, and everyone was tossing it back while they could.

Good hunting, and all the troubled sods his sire could shake a stick at. On second thought….

“Chicago it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N the first: you know, I honestly didn’t set out to write this as Spike and Angel Together 4evah!!! it was just a little experiment...but then Angel was so needy and broken, and Spike was so...needy of the needy, like he tends to be, and then one thing led to another and the boys rode off into the uh night ready to tolerate each other forever. grudgingly, of course (*cough*). and see me, not complaining in the slightest.
> 
> A/N the second: The Boston Red Sox beat the Chicago Cubs in the World Series on September 11, 1918 in a home victory. WWI was on, obviously, and food and fuel was pretty tightly rationed at that point. In addition, that year half a million Americans died in an especially virulent world-wide pandemic of influenza, and Boston was stricken between August and October…people were terrified. The 18th amendment to the Constitution banning the production, sale, and transportation of alcohol was ratified in January of 1919, though Prohibition didn’t begin till 1920, and Chicago was the hot spot for bootlegging and resultant mob activity…no clue what it was like just prior, I embellished that. So these are the events Spike and Angel referred to casually. I have no idea what kind, if any, public celebration was had after the Red Sox victory, especially at night since fuel was being rationed. But whatever :P
> 
> And Chicago…well, you know. Angel has a date to save a puppy there in the early 1920s. lmao.


End file.
